


Kissable Surface Area

by Scientia_Fantasia



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Dr. Joly, F/M, Multi, The Sads, bossuet the cancer patient
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-17 22:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scientia_Fantasia/pseuds/Scientia_Fantasia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A cliffhanger by popular demand.</p><p>P.S. The research for this consisted of one wild night reading articles about cancer I do not claim to be a doctor but if I messed anything up particularly badly then please do tell</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A cliffhanger by popular demand.
> 
> P.S. The research for this consisted of one wild night reading articles about cancer I do not claim to be a doctor but if I messed anything up particularly badly then please do tell

He looked sick.

That was actually somewhat rare, and was the first thing that Joly noticed when he walked into the room, holding the patient’s chart under his arm; a one “Lesgueules Demeaux,” according to the paperwork.

“You have quite the name,” said Joly, smiling tentatively at his patient. He never knew how willing people were to joke around—not that he ever blamed them when they weren’t. It was hard to keep a good spirit, considering.

Thankfully, his patient seemed to have plenty of spirit, and laughed at the comment. “I get that sometimes,” he said. “Usually shorten it to L-E-S-G-L-E, but, official paperwork...”

“It’s just Les-gle, then?” Joly asked, sitting down across from him. Lesgle nodded. “Well,” said Joly, holding out his hand, “I’m Dr. Joly. I wish I could say otherwise, but you’ll probably be seeing me an awful lot.”

Lesgle shook his hand, grip strong despite his apparent fatigue, and grinned. “Don’t put yourself down,” he said, “I’m sure you’re not that bad company.”

Joly smiled with him—it was hard not to—and brought up his clipboard to flip through the papers he’d been given, looking for relevant information. Messily checked boxes told him that Lesgle had never used steroids, had only a normal history of alcohol use…he was, for all intents and purposes, perfectly healthy.

Except, of course, for one thing.

“You,” said Joly, looking up from the papers, “are unlucky.”

Lesgle, surprisingly, laughed at this. And even more surprisingly, it wasn’t a sardonic laugh; he seemed genuinely amused at the statement. “I get that a lot, too.”

Joly’s eyebrows went up, mouth pulling up in amusement at his patient’s nonchalance. It was a welcome change from what he usually dealt with, and he had a small hope that it would last.

“Well,” he said, glancing downwards again, “I have good news and bad news.”

“There’s good news?”

“Relatively good, yes. The cancer hasn’t spread to any other organs, so we’ll be able to localize some treatments, minimizing the effects they have on your healthy tissue. And usually,” he paused, looking up at his patient, “it means we can surgically operate to remove the tumor…”

Lesgle frowned. “I feel there’s a ‘but’ coming somewhere.”

“Ah,” said Joly, smiling sympathetically. “Unfortunately in your case, the tumor is too large to safely operate on.”

Lesgle nodded, looking resigned to the fact. “So what’re you going to do, then?”

“We’re going to try to diminish it. Chemotherapy, radiation therapy…we’ll probably have to cycle through a few different treatments to find one that works the best for you, but once we do we’ll hopefully be able to get the tumor down to a manageable size. After that, we’ll work with you to help you decide whether you’d rather continue treatment or attempt a surgical removal.”

Joly attempted a comforting smile.

“Do you have any questions about the treatment process?”

Lesgle’s positivity was beginning to fade, and at that moment he just looked fairly overwhelmed.

“Not that I really want an answer to,” he said.

Joly just nodded, taking up a more professional attitude in the absence of his patient’s humor. He turned his attention to his clipboard again, looking through a few pages.

“…you’ve only listed one family member,” he noted, glancing up at Lesgle, who just nodded. “In the event of an emergency, will she be able to make decisions for you?”

“Of course.”

“Even if it involves a potentially fatal operation?”

“Yes.”

Joly stared at him for a moment, surprised at Lesgle’s conviction, before making a small note on the paperwork. He set the clipboard aside, considering anything else he might need to say.

“Ah,” he started, thought coming to mind. “Many patients are able to go about their daily lives, or at the very least live at home, during the beginning of their treatment. But, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, you’re going to have severe symptoms directly caused by the cancer, and unfortunately, treatment is only going to compound them. You’re going to lose weight, have trouble keeping food down, suffer from fatigue…you may experience soreness or swelling in the abdominal area, at which point I would strongly suggest checking yourself in full-time.  But, of course, it’s entirely your decision whether you do or not. You could even have a room here as soon as tomorrow if that would set you at ease. Do you have any questions?”

Lesgle shook his head.

“I could prescribe some medication for the nausea in the meantime, if you’d like.”

“Oh god, would you? This is killing—“

He paused, realizing the accuracy of the statement, and shook his head, laughing in a decidedly less joyful manner.

“Yeah. I’d appreciate that,” he said instead.

“Alright,” said Joly, “It’ll be ready for you at the front desk when you check out, if you need to ask then just say Dr. Joly left a prescription for you. But first, I’m going to hand you off to a nurse to get a few tests done, and then they’ll ask if you want a tour of our facilities. If you don’t feel quite up to it right now then feel free to come back another time, and we’ll get someone to show you around. Any questions?”

Lesgle shook his head again, with the certainty of someone who just doesn’t want to hear anything else about doctors or sickness or cancer for the rest of the day.

“The nurse should be here in a few minutes,” Joly assured, and just nodded briefly at Lesgle before leaving.

Because in his experience, there weren’t many appropriate farewells you could give to a dying man.

\--

It wasn’t more than a few weeks later Joly received notification that Lesgle would be staying at the center full time. It didn’t really come as a surprise, though he thought his patient might have wanted to wait a little longer, if only considering the cost. Then again, Joly hadn’t exactly been getting regular updates on his condition—chemotherapy wasn’t his area.

He decided to visit.

The center Joly worked at was nice enough (expensive enough—though he tried not to think about that) that all of the patients got their own rooms, instead of a curtained-off section of one. When your body starts slowly shutting down, it’s never something you want some stranger looking, or even listening, in on.

When Joly stepped into the open doorway, there were two people in the room. Lesgle, sitting on the bed, and a woman sitting on a chair across from him. Joly could guess, but he didn’t make any assumptions.

He knocked on the doorframe, and the pair looked at him, slightly startled.

“Oh,” Joly said, “I’ll come back later?”

“No, no!” Lesgle started, startled expression quickly being replaced by a smile—he was still smiling, that was good—and beckoned for Joly to join them. “We were just talking about you.”

Joly walked over, eyebrow raised in question, and Lesgle gestured to the woman.

“Dr. Joly, this is the light of my life, my wife Musichetta.”

Musichetta, beaming, held out a hand for him, so Joly shook it, returning the smile.

“Musichetta,” Lesgle continued, “This is Dr. Joly, the man who’ll probably be poking around in me in the next few months.”

She laughed, and gave Joly a quick once-over.

“Well,” she said, “He’s definitely as cute as you said he was.”

Joly flushed, and Lesgle had the decency to look mortified.

“Musichetta!” he whined. “We can’t hit on my doctor!”

“Why not? He’s _joli_!”

Lesgle shoved her shoulder, gently, and she offered no resistance, sitting back in her chair and laughing as Lesgle attempted to recover his composure.

Joly shook his head, eyebrows raised, trying to will his blush away. Just when you think you’ve heard everything…

“Ah,” he started, and Musichetta returned her grin to a polite smile, though amusement still twinkled in her eyes. “Hopefully someone’s already come by and given you a rundown of the facilities we have here?”

The couple gave the affirmative.

“And told you what to do if you need someone?”

Lesgle pointed to a red button on the side of his bed, and Joly smiled.

“Good. Then just one more thing; if you ever need me at any time, for any reason, then just ask for me. Even if I’m not here, everyone knows how to get me on the phone, and I’ll be happy to talk to you, even if it’s four in the morning. That goes for you, too, Musichetta. If you ever have any questions or want to check up on your husband but can’t visit for any reason, I’ll help you with whatever you need.”

“That sounds wonderful, thank you,” Musichetta said.

“The only exception is when I’m in the middle of surgery or with another patient. Then I’ll just get back to you as soon as possible.”

“Seems fair enough,” said Lesgle.

“Now, about your treatment…is it alright if I discuss it in front of her?”

“Anything you would say to me, you can say to Musichetta.”

“Alright—I have to ask, that’s all—now that you’re here fulltime, we might increase the frequency or intensity of your treatments, and be able to administer medication to deal with the side effects or help your immune system, if necessary, since we’ll be able to keep a closer eye on your condition and determine what is and isn’t working. I won’t go into it all now since you’re still settling in, I just wanted to give you an overview of what to expect. I’ll be able to come back tomorrow with more detailed information about what treatments and medications we might try. But, do you have any questions for me now?”

Lesgle shifted slightly on the bed, turning to face Musichetta, who continued to look at Joly.

“How is he going to feel?” she asked.

Joly smiled sympathetically, and Musichetta’s mood visibly dropped at the understood answer.

“He’s going to get worse before he gets better,” Joly said, addressing Musichetta before turning to Lesgle. “There’s really no way to tell how bad the symptoms are going to get, but we will do our best to minimize them.”

His patient inexplicably laughed at that answer, before turning to his wife and saying, “Don’t bring me any food.”

Joly decided not to comment on the fact that that was actually very good advice.

\--

Lesgle did get worse.

Joly was expecting it obviously, but the rapid decline of his patient’s condition was still disheartening at best, difficult to keep up with at worst. Keeping the cocktail of medications balanced was hard enough when it was only the chemotherapy causing immediate problems.

And though it was a good thing, health-wise, it was upsetting to see Lesgle smiling every day, despite how much pain he must be in—discomfort, at best—because it was a lot easier to disassociate from patients when they started closing themselves off or acting aggressively. When they somehow, against all odds, managed to keep their mood up…

He knew he shouldn’t, but Joly always felt like he was treating—and more often than not, losing--a friend.

Musichetta’s frequent presence was what seemed to keep Lesgle’s mood up, and whatever effect all of this was having on her, she kept carefully hidden away from her husband. Even on the days Joly saw her walking down the hallway with her eyes set ahead and face carefully blank of expression, he would later walk past Lesgle’s room and hear the two laughing, or walk in to check up on him and find them having pleasant conversation.

And there was that time he found them leaning in and talking conspiratorially, and when they noticed him in the doorway they first looked startled, then began to giggle like students. Joly, playing along, looked properly disgruntled as he walked out, only to smile and shake his head once he was out of sight. Perhaps, he thought, he would check on him later.

But Musichetta couldn’t be there all the time, and it began to show. For a week or two, every time Joly came to check on Lesgle—assuming he wasn’t asleep—he’d get a greeting, at the very least. A smile and a wave, or a, “Hello, doctor.” And he frequently asked questions about his condition, commenting that a nurse gave him this or that, confirming once or twice that Joly was _sure_ radiation therapy wasn’t going to make him a superhero? And Joly would greet him back, and answer all of his questions about the medication and cancer as plainly as he could, and laugh and say, “Well, I haven’t seen it happen _yet_.”

But then, some days Joly would come in and all he’d get was a wiggle of Lesgle’s fingers in greeting if he paid attention—and other days his patient would ignore him completely, eyes looking hollow as they stared out the half-curtained window.

And Joly would say “Hello,” anyways, and tap the bedframe in farewell on his way to the door.

Then came the inevitable, when one day Joly walked in to see Lesgle sitting up in his bed, looking down as something drifted from his hand onto the blanket.

“…my hair’s falling out,” he said, resignedly.

“Yeah,” said Joly. He was never quite sure what tone to take when this happened—it mattered more to some patients than it did others.

“I told Musichetta…we decided she’d just shave my head, if it started doing this. Have some control over it.”

“I see,” said Joly. “Would you mind particularly just buzzing it short, instead? If someone slips and you end up cut…well, it probably wouldn’t matter, but I would appreciate not taking any risks.”

Lesgle looked up at him, looking almost confused, before shaking his head.

“No,” he said, “That’s probably a good idea.”

Joly smiled, and amazingly, got a smile back.

“Would you like a comb, in the meantime?”

“Oh,” went Lesgle, “Do you keep those here?”

“No, but I could get one for you anyways.”

His patient sighed, but the smile stayed.

“Yeah,” he said, “That’d be nice.”

\--

The next time Joly spotted Musichetta in the hallways, he made it a point to go see Lesgle when he had a moment—being a doctor didn’t mean he couldn’t be curious. The first thing that was evident was that his patient’s mood had improved, but that wasn’t particularly surprising, considering Musichetta was there.

The other thing, of course, was that Lesgle’s hair was cut short, now just a sort of fuzz that he kept running a hand over.

“Hello, doctor,” Musichetta greeted once she spotted him. “Do you need something?”

“I think that’s my line,” Joly said, grinning as he made a show of checking the infusion they’d since hooked Lesgle up to. There wasn’t much to see, but he didn’t want to give the impression he’d come in just to look at his patient’s hair.

Which, of course, he had.

“It looks nice,” he said, addressing Lesgle.

“Yeah? I dunno. I guess. It just feels weird, right now,” his patient said. Then, “Here,” and bowed his head towards Joly.

Joly obliged, reaching out to feel the short hair—and noticing a spot that was already bare, but he decided that wasn’t worth mentioning.

“Feels fine to me,” he said.

“Is that your official diagnosis?” Musichetta teased.

Joly smiled, shaking his head. “You did a good job,” he commented.

“Yes, I know,” said Musichetta, “Bossuet’s failed to mention that, though. All he’s said is that ‘it’s fuzzy.’ ”

Joly raised an eyebrow, question obvious, but Lesgle spoke before he could.

“What! It’s weird, okay?”

“It’s not _that_ weird.”

“Have _you_ ever shaved your head before?”

“I have, actually.”

Lesgle went quiet at that, somewhat stunned, and Joly decided to take his chance.

“ ‘Bossuet’?” he asked.

“Yes?” said Lesgle. Then, “Oh. Oh, yeah, that’s…a nickname. Though I guess basically everyone calls me that…”

“His real name is too intimidating,” said Musichetta.

Joly made an affirmative noise, and said, “I can see how that might be a problem.”

Lesgle—Bossuet?--made a show of crossing his arms, having to shift around a bit to not disrupt the IV.

“You guys are such jerks,” he said, pouting, “I can’t believe I’m married to one of you.”

Joly frowned slightly at that, wondering if they went a bit too far, but Musichetta didn’t seem to be bothered.

“One of us?” she asked, “Which one would that be, then?”

Bossuet looked between them, brought a finger up to tap on his chin, and then used it to alternate pointing between the two.

“Eanie, meanie, miney…” he started, and Joly let out an unbidden bark of laughter. The couple grinned at him, and he rubbed at his face awkwardly, trying to hide his blush.

“Anyways,” said Joly, “I really should be checking up on my other patients…”

“Mmhm,” went Musichetta. “A convenient excuse.”

“Oh, just let him go, Musichetta.”

Joly attempted to make a move to leave at this, but—

“No, wait, one last thing,” Musichetta said, “Do you know why cancer patients’ hair falls out?”

Joly was thankfully saved the embarrassment of actually answering, when he stalled for just a second trying to choose between, “Well, not all…” and “It’s because…”, and noticed Bossuet’s “Oh, not this again,” face.

“…why?” he asked.

“To increase their KSA!”

Joly’s expression must have asked his question for him, because she clarified;

“Their Kissable Surface Area. Obviously.”

Joly laughed slightly, repeating “Obviously,” before waving at them both and turning to leave.

Thankfully, they let him.

\--

Seeing Bossuet happy was nice, but he couldn’t be all the time. The memory of him smiling with his wife made it even worse when Joly found him quiet. It was normal patient behavior, and Joly had seen the patterns more times than he could count, but the contrast wasn’t easy to swallow. And knowing the pattern meant knowing the likely conclusion, and though he never liked seeing people as numbers, he’d had to tell families the survival rate so many times throughout the years that the numbers began sticking in his head, and some nights he’d walk by his patient’s rooms and see a steadily dropping percentage above their doorframes.

Not that percentages really meant anything, in the case of an individual, but Joly never claimed the behavior was rational.

Bossuet had started at an optimistic 30%.

The numbers never rose. Joly understood that, because the numbers were a result of his fear of failing his patient and their family; which, no matter how many professors had warned him before, was proving to be difficult to shake. So when he was feeling hopeful about someone—in Bossuet’s case, usually when Musichetta was there—they were a human being, of course, and the number went away.

Perhaps, thought Joly, the percentage was also a coping mechanism.

It was late one night when Joly visited, and Bossuet was sleeping. Sleep, when the body was at rest, and all the stresses of the day were shut in a box for the night. Sleeping was supposed to be peaceful. But Bossuet looked anything but at peace, his hands fisted in his blanket and brow furrowed in a wince, his breaths coming heavily.

Joly tried to think back to when his patient had first shown up. He’d looked sick, but sick like someone with a cold, like someone who went to his doctor expecting a prescription for a decongestant and bed rest only to spend an hour in his car wondering what he was going to tell his wife.

All Joly could see were protruding bones and thin skin and laugh lines gone slack.

The mood hit him like a time bomb, the clock counting down to 3, 2, 1…only for the power to flicker out, uneventful, forgotten.

He needed a drink.

\--

What he got was a glass of water.

Maybe not exactly what he would have gotten for himself had he been at home, but there was a reason he had opted to visit Combeferre instead; a last minute decision, so he hadn’t exactly called ahead, but despite the oddness of the hour, Combeferre welcomed him in without question. It was a habit of Combeferre’s, Joly supposed.

“Would you like anything?” he’d asked, and when Joly asked for a drink there can’t have been much misunderstanding about what Joly meant. But what he got was a glass of water.

Joly sat down on the sofa, and Combeferre shortly sat down next to him.

“How’re things?” asked Joly.

“They’re as normal as they ever are.”

Joly laughed at that, getting a smile out of Combeferre.

“Has Enjolras tried to start any coups lately?”

“There’re always a few.”

Joly raised an eyebrow.

“…keeping answers short, are we.”

“Well, if you want to continue to pretend you showed up to have small talk, I suppose I could fill you in.”

Joly stared at him for a moment, only for Combeferre to raise an eyebrow back at him in question. Joly might have been surprised at his intuition if Combeferre hadn’t been through this so many times before.

So he just sighed, and sat back on the couch, and stared vaguely in the direction of the blank television in front of them.

“My job sucks sometimes,” he said.

Combeferre hummed in affirmation.

“Not all of the time, but sometimes. Well…most of the time.”

“You deal with it fairly well.”

“That’s a nice thing to say.”

Combeferre frowned, and Joly took a drink of his water.

“What was it about today that made it suck particularly badly?” Combeferre asked.

Joly shrugged. But Combeferre didn’t push further, and this somehow got an answer from him.

“There’s this patient,” he said, “and he’s really cheerful most of the time. He has his moments, but really, even a perfectly healthy person would have their moments if you could check in on them 24/7. Even his wife is keeping her mood up, and you know how it can be on the family…I get the impression that these two only have each other, and then all of the sudden…”

He took a deep breath, slouching and running his hands over his face.

“It just…it makes me think of all the people that have been through this, people who were perfectly happy, people who were…really, really nice, and no one would ever wish this on them, you know? And I’ve seen them…not make it, and their families don’t know what to do without them, and they just sit and cry and cry and tell me all of the reasons that they didn’t deserve this and…there’ve been _children_ , and all I want to do is tell them that I’m sorry, I-I’m sorry I couldn’t save them and I should have done something differently and…I just…I _can’t_ …and all of these people…all of these horrible people are walking around living perfectly happy lives while others end up with a tumor that slowly eats them away from the inside out? What the fuck kind of world are we _living_ in? Where good people and…and children rot away between hospital walls? And…I don’t even know what’s worse, when people come in smiling and end up screaming at their family by the end, completely broken and…one even told me, he knew he was going to die, he grabbed my arm and told me that he loves his family, he does, but h-he thinks, this way, they’ll miss him less when he’s gone.”

Tears were coming by this point, and he wiped at his face, almost frustrated, trying to keep his voice steady as he continued rambling, words coming in torrents.

“Bossuet, the patient—shit, I’m not supposed to tell you that, am I,” he shook his head, but continued after a breath, “He hardly eats anymore, but when his wife shows up he makes sure to smile and laugh, even when it hurts him, sometimes, and he’s not…he’s not even faking, when she’s there, he’s really just that happy to see her, and it’s so…he even, to me, he’ll make jokes, even though…he has to know by now, I…I d-don’t think he’s going to make it—“

These last few words were forced out through a sob, and Joly gave in, burying his face in his hands.

His mind was blank, pushing all of his thoughts out in sobs, and it wasn’t until he started grabbing fistfuls of tissues that he noticed Combeferre’s hand rubbing circles into his back. Combeferre quietly comforted him, until Joly inevitably resorted to sniffles.

“Would you like my advice as a colleague, or as a friend?” he asked, eventually.

“What’s Dr. Combeferre say?” Joly mumbled while adding to his pile of tissues.

“You can’t get emotionally connected to patients. In your line of work, especially. I’m sure you know what the survival rates for most cancers look like. You can’t focus on how many people have died, you need to look at how long you’ve kept them alive compared to how they would have been if they hadn’t checked in under your care. That’s how you measure your success.”

Joly laughed at that, if only because it was almost verbatim what every instructor had told him since he’d started medical school.

“That’s very practical,” he said. Then, “What do _you_ think?”

Combeferre squeezed his shoulder, giving him a somber smile.

“It sucks to make friends with cancer patients. But…I think if you look at people under another doctor’s care sometime, you’ll happen upon a great fewer number who are at least at peace with what’s happening. A doctor’s job is to help someone live longer, ideally in as little pain as possible. But you…you keep people happier longer. Your patients don’t feel like they’re part of some machine, with nurses coming and going and injecting them with drugs they’ve never heard of and doctors coming in just to check things off their list. You’re someone they can talk to. Sometimes the last person in their life that actually listens, and that’s worth the world.”

Joly nodded slightly, grabbing another tissue.

“So,” said Combeferre, “You can choose to block out these things, and I wouldn’t blame you. It’s not your responsibility to sacrifice yourself for your patients.”

“But…”

“But I think a lot of people would miss you.”

Joly sniffled, and stared at the floor for a while, wringing his hands.

“…can I sleep on your couch tonight?” he said, eventually.

“Of course,” said Combeferre. “You know where I keep my extra blankets. And I have to leave early in the morning, but I’ll leave some breakfast for you in the fridge, alright?”

“Yeah, thanks, mom,” Joly said, grinning behind his tissue.

Combeferre rolled his eyes, but Joly could see his mouth pulling up into a smile. He hadn’t used that nickname in a while, but oh had it been used.

“Mmhm,” Combeferre went, standing up. “Sweet dreams, dear,” and he kissed Joly on the forehead before walking out, Joly stubbornly throwing a tissue after him.

It didn’t quite make it.

\--

Joly found that he was making a habit of visiting Bossuet late at night. It wasn’t conscious, at first, but he realized at some point that he hadn’t seen Musichetta in a while, and came to the conclusion that it was probably because he hadn’t been in Bossuet’s room at any reasonable hours of the day.

Though even affter he realized this, he continued the pattern. Voicing his concern out loud to Combeferre brought it to the front of his mind, and though on some level he knew that he was going directly against his friend’s advice, he didn’t think he could stand to have Bossuet smiling at him again.

But of course, the universe had her ways, and his patient happened to be conscious one night when Joly checked in on him.

“Hello, Bossuet,” Joly greeted, after noticing his patient staring at a wall.

“Mm,” was Bossuet’s greeting back. “You calling me that now, too?”

“If you don’t mind,” said Joly. “It fits, I think.”

“Yeah. I don’t much feel like _l’aigle_ right now.”

Joly attempted a smile at that, before nodding at a container of yogurt sitting on a tray next to Bossuet’s bed.

“Not hungry?” he asked.

Bossuet shook his head, and Joly pulled up a chair to sit next to him.

“When’s the last time you ate?”

His patient didn’t answer, but looked guilty enough that it didn’t much matter.

Joly sighed.

“You don’t have to, but I’d really appreciate it if you’d eat,” he said. “I could get you something else, if you’d like?”

Bossuet stared at the yogurt wearily, but shook his head nevertheless. “Could you open it for me?” was all he asked, and Joly happily obliged, holding it out for him afterwards.

Bossuet took the yogurt, picked up his spoon, and then proceeded to stare it down.

Joly stared at him in turn.

“…are you going to sit here until I finish this?” Bossuet asked, prodding the yogurt somberly.

“Maybe,” said Joly. His patient looked up at him in disbelief, but upon seeing Joly cross his arms and raise an eyebrow, he just sulkily brought a spoonful to his mouth.

Joly smiled, and Bossuet swallowed pointedly.

Joly continued sitting there.

Bossuet sighed.

“You’re really going to make me eat this, aren’t you…”

“It’s very possible.”

His patient ate a little more, somewhat less reluctantly that time, before slowly turning his eyes to Joly.

“Did you ever know anyone with cancer?” he asked, in what might have been a quiet voice if they were in a room that was anything but silent.

“Yes,” said Joly. “I lost my mother to it when I was a teenager.”

Bossuet’s eyes opened slightly, like his face would have dropped if there had been much life in it in the first place.

“Oh,” he said. “Sorry.”

Joly shook his head, and gestured at the yogurt. Bossuet took another bite.

“It was horrible, of course,” Joly continued, “But I managed to make some good out of it. I’d always been interested in medicine, but never had much of a drive to pursue it. That quickly changed.”

“Yeah,” said Bossuet. “I’m glad…well, not glad, really, but…” he faltered for a second, but Joly just smiled at him, so he managed to continue. “I’m thankful you ended up here. Though maybe the circumstances aren’t all that great.”

“Mhm,” went Joly. “I’m glad that I met you. Though the circumstances are definitely not all that great.”

Bossuet managed a laugh, more of an amused exhale than anything, and took up an interest in stirring his yogurt pensively.

After a while, he spoke up again. “How did your father do?” he asked, keeping his eyes trained downwards, “After you lost your mother?”

Joly’s smile faltered.

“…not well, for the first few months,” he answered honestly. “He took care of me, but that seemed like the only thing he knew how to do. He kept me fed, but would forget to eat. He’d always ask me about school, but he lost his job soon afterwards. We…went through a hard time. But he got better. By the end of the first year you wouldn’t have been able to guess what happened, by the look of him. But of course, I could see how he was really feeling, at times…”

Joly shook his head, memories he hadn’t used in a long time coming to the surface.

“He got back on his feet,” he said, “got hired at a new company and…well, he’s probably one of the main reasons I made it through medical school, mentally and monetarily.”

Bossuet nodded absently, and Joly reached over and carefully placed a hand on his patient’s arm. When that seemed alright, he gripped it slightly, before pulling away.

“I can’t tell you Musichetta will be okay,” he said. “But…you know her better than I do. Do you think she’s strong enough?”

Bossuet sniffled, but smiled at the thought. “She’s the strongest person I know,” he said. “And…and she’s the best thing that ever happened to me, and I mean that. This just…feels like a really shitty way to repay her.”

Joly stayed quiet as his patient stared at the wall.

“Do you want me to get Musichetta on the phone?” he eventually asked.

“No,” said Bossuet. “She comes to see me whenever she can. It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

His patient nodded, gaze settling on the plastic spoon in his hand. “I think I’d like to be alone for a while,” he clarified.

Joly stood up from his chair.

“Will you try and finish that?” he asked.

“No promises,” said Bossuet.

Joly sighed, but smiled, and bid his patient goodnight before he left the room.

\--

He did, in fact, end up calling Musichetta. He looked her number up in their records, and stared at the small note next to it before he dialed.

It rang three times before she picked up.

“Hello?” she asked, intonation making it clear that she didn’t have the center’s number in her phone.

“Hello. This is Dr. Joly.”

“Oh,” said Musichetta. “I’m guessing this isn’t a social call.”

“No,” said Joly.

There was a pause, and then, “Alright. I’m sitting down.”

Joly took a breath. No matter how many of these he made, they never got any easier.

“Your husband’s in a coma,” he said.

He listened to the faint static on the phone for a while.

“What does that mean?” said Musichetta. “I—no, I know what it means, but…is he…”

“We still have options,” said Joly. “But I would rather wait until tomorrow to discuss any further action, if it’s alright.”

Musichetta took a heavy breath.

“Am I going to feel better tomorrow?” she asked.

Joly wasn’t sure he had an answer to that.

“…you can come see him, if you want,” he said instead.

“Yeah,” said Musichetta. “I’ll be there.”

\--

Joly found himself standing outside of Bossuet’s room (“0%” etched into the doorframe, pulsing with each beat of his heart), wondering what his place was in all of this.

But it wasn’t time for wondering. He could either go in, or continue down the hall.

It was Combeferre, he supposed, that nudged him in the right direction.

He took a step beyond the doorframe to see Musichetta sitting next to Bossuet, unseeing eyes trained somewhere in the area of her husband’s arm. She’d been crying.

Joly had just decided that it would be best to leave when Musichetta looked up at him and smiled. A weary smile, like someone who had to smile too often, and if there was anyone who had earned the right to that, it was Musichetta—but it was a smile nonetheless, so Joly tentatively came over to stand next to her.

“…you’re really an amazing person,” she said, after looking back down to her husband. “Bossuet said…he told me that if he doesn’t make it, he’d be happy to look down and see me with you. And he said…” she laughed slightly, and Joly couldn’t help but smile at that. “He said if he does make it, he’d be happy to share.”

Joly kept quiet, watching Musichetta as she shook her head and wiped at her face.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “That was probably inappropriate. I…sorry.”

“It’s alright,” said Joly, placing a hand on Musichetta’s shoulder. She reached up and covered Joly’s hand with her opposite, leaning her head on his forearm—and Joly felt the horrible sinking feeling of being somewhere he shouldn’t be, but if he was offering any comfort at all to Musichetta, he couldn’t possibly make himself leave.

“I love him,” she said, voice breaking. “I love him so, so much…”

Joly got down on his knees, sliding his hand down to Musichetta’s arm and smiling up at her.

“And he loves you,” he said. “Of course he does. But what he needs right now is for you to not give up on him. It’s not time to give up, alright?”

Musichetta attempted a smile, but it twisted into something else, and she just slid off the chair to fall onto Joly, wrapping her arms around him in a vise and wailing into his shoulder.

Joly rubbed circles into Musichetta’s back, and worked very hard to remind himself that this wasn’t yet the time to cry.

\--

Musichetta wasn’t the last person he had to lend a shoulder to that week, or the next. Bossuet’s wasn’t the only dropping percentage he saw over a doorframe, and wasn’t the only reason Joly found himself sitting awake at night, reading wordy articles in a hope that maybe, maybe he’d missed some new advancement, maybe there was something else he could try.

He had a new patient show up, this one looking perfectly healthy.

He had a patient leave under a sheet.

And through all this, Bossuet’s heart monitor beeped steadily onwards.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still not a doctor

“Hey, Bossuet,” Joly said, standing by his patient’s bedside with his hands firmly stuck in his pockets. He didn’t exactly have to worry about presenting a welcoming figure to a patient who couldn’t see him, after all. He wasn’t actually sure if Bossuet could hear him, either, but…it seemed polite to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“I’ve been speaking with Musichetta over the past couple of days, to help her decide what to do from here. We think it would be best to attempt a surgical removal of the tumor. The treatments you’ve been on…well, they have been somewhat successful, we’re seeing some improvement, but they’re not really working well enough. Surgery is still going to be risky, but Musichetta and I agree that it’s the best option at this point. I’ve scheduled you in for tomorrow. And, don’t worry; you’ll be put under full anesthesia.”

He took a hand out of his pocket briefly to place it on Bossuet’s shoulder in the hopes of offering him some comfort.

“I’ll be the one operating, so…”

He pulled his hand back, and attempted a laugh to fill the space while he searched for the right words.

“Ah…hopefully you trust me a bit by now, is all.”

There was, predictably, no response.

“…See you tomorrow.”

\--

Joly had always had a steady hand. He’d been amazing at dissections since high school, and learned procedures fast—in theory, he had always been a great surgeon, but the first surgery he ever performed held a pretty high place on his Worst Experiences of My Life list, somewhere under his first failed operation.

It turned out that the ability to empathize with your patient wasn’t a very valuable asset when you had them cut open on an operating table, and latex gloves weren’t very comfortable over sweat-soaked palms.

With time, he learned to switch off that part of his brain—or ignore it, at the very least—and by the time Bossuet had been wheeled into the operating room, Joly had reduced him to a puzzle to be solved. Bossuet was now The Patient, and Joly’s expression was undoubtedly one of cold calculation.

It was a necessary mindset, but all the same, Joly was glad that none of his friends would ever see him perform surgery.

“Count down from ten,” he spoke aloud out of habit as he injected the anesthesia.

The room was still for a moment as Joly mentally ran the countdown, doing his best to assure that the anesthesia had kicked in.

But once he looked up, it was all motion.

\--

“Musichetta? Hey—this is Dr. Joly again. I just wanted to give you an update on Bossuet’s condition. There weren’t any immediate complications with the surgery, and he’s in a stable condition, for now. Um…I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but there’s still a chance that we’ll have to operate again, if something comes up or…it’s possible we missed some of the cancerous tissue. So…well, I think that’s all for now. Call me back if you have any questions. Bye.”

\--

Joly didn’t talk to Musichetta much in the period following the surgery. This was partially because Musichetta wasn’t as talkative in the absence of Bossuet—or, in the absence of his consciousness, at least. And what was there to talk about? They had one conversation, when she was feeling up to it, and it didn’t end on a very high note when Joly realized that he was talking about Bossuet like he had already passed away.

He couldn’t really make polite conversation after that.

Their communication afterwards was made up solely of Joly informing her of the results of tests and projected progress—but he could tell that most of his words were all but meaningless to her. All that mattered, in the end, was that Bossuet was still asleep.

But she kept visiting.

\--

“Good morning, Bossuet!” Joly said, throwing the curtains open in his patient’s room before glancing behind him—it wasn’t quite morning for Bossuet, apparently.

“I have a surgery today,” he said, going over to sit next to his patient’s bed. “In about half an hour. I decided I’d just come in and see how all of you are doing. I mean, I had one person yell at me already, but…I hoped you wouldn’t mind.”

He glanced around the room, then behind him to the window. “I’m sorry you got stuck in this room,” he said. “There’s not much of a view, is there? And I’m noticing this just now, when it couldn’t matter to you less, I’d imagine…”

Joly sighed, and sat back in the chair. It was actually fairly comfortable, he thought. Well, it was an expensive establishment, wasn’t it? The least they could have were comfortable chairs. Though maybe if they spend a little less on chairs and a little more on equipment…

“You look pretty good, you know,” said Joly. Then, “Alright, maybe that’s a little lie, but you look better than you did right after surgery. Maybe it’s just the sunlight, but…”

He reached out and put the back of his hand against Bossuet’s forehead for a moment.

“You feel fine, temperature-wise. Hopefully you’re bearably okay everything-else-wise as well.”

Joly stared at him for a moment.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m starting to feel like a crazy man, so I’m gonna go. Have a good day. Don’t wear yourself out too much, alright?”

He got up and walked to the door.

Standing in the doorway, he wanted to glance back for a moment. But he had before, a few too many times, and it wasn’t quite worth the disappointment, no matter how small.

So he just went to go visit his next patient.

\--

The hallways were actually fairly dark at night. Joly had always expected them to be blazingly fluorescent at all hours of the day, but it turned out that the human body didn’t like that very much, and since there was a window into the hallway on all of the patients’ doors, the center decided that a more subtle approach was necessary and, coincidentally, cost efficient.

It was certainly enough light to see by, of course, but little enough light that as Joly stalked down the hallway, completely focused on going home and collapsing in bed, a little red light was enough to catch his attention. It was the light placed in front of patient’s doors to notify that they needed help—that they had pressed the button on the side of their beds.

Joly thought, for a moment, that he was disoriented. There was no way it could be on in the room that he thought he was in front of, right?

He glanced up at the room number. Then, trying to suppress the surge of hope inside him—it could be a machine malfunction, or…any number of things—he went into the room, sat next to Bossuet’s bed, and switched off the “call” button.

His patient’s arm was hanging off the side of the bed.

“…Bossuet?” Joly nearly whispered.

Bossuet cracked an eye open, and smiled.

“Oh, my god,” breathed Joly, burying his face in his hands.

“ ‘S been that long?”

Bossuet’s voice was rough.

“Yeah,” said Joly, rubbing his eyes for a moment before looking up. “Almost. Do you want some water?”

“Yeah.”

Joly got him a bottle and sat back down, twisting the cap off before holding it out.

His patient just stared at it wearily.

“…would you like some help?” Joly offered.

“Um,” went Bossuet. Then he glanced downwards and lifted his hands up to look at. They shook slightly, but he seemed satisfied. “No. Don’t laugh at me if I spill this all over myself, though.”

“Oh, I’ve seen much worse,” Joly assured.

Bossuet took the bottle from him, and carefully took a drink before handing it back.

Joly placed it on the bedside table.

“So, how are you feeling?” he asked.

“…tired,” said Bossuet, after a moment. “Kind of sore. You…you operated on me, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. How’d that go?”

“Well, you’re awake.”

Bossuet managed a grin.

“Thank you for that,” he said.

“Ah, well, it’s what I get paid for…”

“Really? I assumed you’d get paid whether I lived or not.”

Joly stared at him for a moment, but when his patient just smiled, he sighed and shook his head, trying not to look too amused.

“Hey,” started Bossuet, and Joly raised his eyebrows slightly in attention. “Is there any way I could talk to Musichetta?”

“Of course!” said Joly, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket—along with a packet of disinfectant wipes, which he used to wipe it down—and pulling up his contacts. “Hopefully she’s awake, though I don’t think she’ll particularly mind being woken up for this, do you?”

He paused, finger hovering right over the ‘call’ button, and glanced up at Bossuet.

“I…sorry, I hope you don’t mind that I have your wife’s number in my phone?”

Bossuet only looked amused at this, so Joly smiled (albeit nervously) and called Musichetta.

The call went to voicemail for a split second before she picked up.

“Dr. Joly?” she asked, alarm evident in her voice.

“Everything’s okay!” Joly immediately said, “Everything is perfectly fine. I’m sorry for calling you so late, I just thought you might want to hear this.”

With that, he handed the phone over to Bossuet.

“Hey, darling,” he greeted. A moment later he broke out into a grin. “Yeah!...He must have magic hands, huh?...You’re not going to make a joke out of that? You must be really off--no, hey…hey, it’s alright, honey, I’m awake now…Yeah, I promise…I’ll pinkie swear…Yeah, I’ll ask him.”

Bossuet looked over at Joly. “Am I well enough to receive visitors in the morning, doctor?” he asked, tone teasing.

“I think you might be,” answered Joly. Bossuet went back to staring vaguely in the direction of the ceiling.

“He says yes,” he told Musichetta. “Mhm…I’ll see you tomorrow, then?...I love you, too…Of course!...Alright. Goodbye.”

He listened to the phone a moment longer before handing it back to Joly, who checked the screen before putting it back in his pocket.

“Now,” said Joly, “I know it’s the last thing you want to hear, but you should probably get some rest.”

Bossuet balked at him. “What?” he said. “Come on, can’t I walk around a little…”

“Yes, in the morning, when someone can keep an eye on you.”

Bossuet sighed, grumpily, and settled back into his bed.

“…I am pretty tired,” he relented.

“Well, hopefully you won’t be in the morning,” said Joly, standing up from his chair. “Is there anything else I can get you before I leave?”

“My wife,” moaned Bossuet.

“Oh, she’ll be here soon enough,” Joly said, shaking his head. “Get some real sleep, okay?”

“Yeah, alright,” said Bossuet. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

\--

Bossuet evidently didn’t mind staying in bed as much as he claimed—because when Joly came to see him the next morning, he found Musichetta curled up next to him, Bossuet slowly dragging his hand up and down her back.

Joly closed the door very, very quietly, and went to visit someone else.

\--

Recovery is never a straight-forward thing, Joly knew this, but when Bossuet had his bad days, there was still that small bit of panic that liked to sit in Joly’s throat.

It took a few weeks for Bossuet to start eating normally again, but once his stomach seemed to settle, he was constantly hungry—which didn’t end up being much of a problem, because Musichetta found particular delight in bringing him food now that she was able to.

But some days he couldn’t eat, and some days he was feverous and fatigued, but Joly—with the help of some nurses—managed to puzzle out most problems and fix them before they got worse, and some issues just seemed to solve themselves.

It wasn’t long before Joly met him ambling around the center, his patient looking a little bit like he was surprised that he owned a pair of feet.

Joly smiled at him as he passed, and Bossuet always grinned back.

\--

In the end, Joly decided until Musichetta was there to drop the news.

He walked in with a clipboard full of papers and a pen.

“Hello, Musichetta,” he greeted with a smile. Then, “Bossuet. How are you feeling?”

His patient considered it for a second.

“Pretty great, actually,” he answered. “It’s kind of weird not feeling like I’m about to throw up all the time.”

“Well, that’s good,” said Joly. “I have some paperwork for you two to fill out, if you don’t mind.”

Musichetta nodded, and held a hand out for it, so Joly handed her the clipboard.

She flipped through a few of the papers, and then looked up at him. “What’s this for?” she asked.

“Oh, it’s just a few things that I need you to sign so Bossuet can go home.”

They both stared at him.

“What?” said Musichetta.

“Like, ‘stay home’ go home?” said Bossuet.

“Yes, like ‘stay home,’ “ Joly said. “You’re not in immediate danger anymore, and like you said, you’re feeling alright, aren’t you? I’d be more than happy to release you with just a few prescriptions to stay on. I’ll still want you back every so often to run some just-to-make-sure tests, but that will be every two weeks or so at first, and less as time goes by. I’m sure you’d rather not be stuck here, right?”

Bossuet had started grinning halfway through this, and Joly couldn’t help but smile back.

“Oh, no, now I’m going to have to get back all your things I sold on Craigslist,” Musichetta said in mock distress.

Bossuet gaped at her, before snatching the clipboard and tapping her on the head with it.

“As long as you didn’t sell my lucky cat,” he said.

“Oh, that was the _first_ thing to go.”

Bossuet just shook his head, and looked over the papers.

“Is there any sort of…I don’t know, processing time for these?” he asked.

“Not really,” said Joly. “Why?”

“Well, I mean…could I go home tonight, if we filled these out?”

“Hmm…you’d have to come back tomorrow so I can talk to you about your prescriptions, but yes.”

“I don’t know, dear, are you sure you want to give up on being taken care of by a handsome doctor 24/7?”

Bossuet tapped her on the head again, pouting, before starting to mark up a few of the papers.

“I have a few other things to get to,” said Joly, “so I’ll come back and get those later, alright?”

Bossuet nodded.

\--

Joly ended up being cajoled into helping pack up Bossuet’s things—but considering he only had a few books and some personal effects, it wasn’t exactly hard work, and took only a few minutes out of his time. It didn’t take much to persuade him.

On their way out the door, Bossuet cornered him with a one-armed hug, the other being busy holding a box, and Musichetta gave him a farewell kiss on the cheek.

To his credit, Joly flushed only slightly.

“Musichetta,” he said, “I hope you never have to set foot in this building again. And Bossuet…I hope you keep your appointments.”

Bossuet grinned at him, and pat him on the back.

“I wouldn’t dream of missing them,” he said.

Joly just smiled and waved them out.

Goodbyes were always his favorite part.

\--

And that was it.

Well, that should have been it. Joly sent Bossuet off the next day with instructions for the pills he’d put him on. According to common sense and ethics manuals and the constantly looming eye of societal norms, that really should have been it.

But Joly ran into him in the hallway one day.

Not literally ran into, but Joly saw Bossuet across the hall, and was thankfully saved from the decision of whether or not to greet him when Bossuet spotted him and approached instead.

“Hey, uh, Joly,” he said, tentatively dropping the title. “I just got out of the…thing,” he gestured vaguely over his shoulder before shaking his head dismissively. “Do you have a minute? It’s fine if you don’t, I just--”

“I have a minute,” Joly assured. “What do you need?”

“Oh, well, it’s not really…Musichetta and I were just wondering if you’d be okay with having dinner with us sometime? To, you know, thank you for everything. And…”

Bossuet trailed off, and shrugged.

Joly raised an eyebrow at him, which just made Bossuet fidget.

“We understand if you don’t want to. Or even if it’s a…doctor thing. It’s fine.”

Joly laughed slightly. “Ah,” he went, “Are you asking me on a date?”

Bossuet slowly gave him an unsure smile.

“N...ooo…” he started, but when Joly raised his eyebrows at him, he finished, “…oot…necessarily?”

Joly rolled his eyes, and looked away as if that would hide his grin.

“I have your number,” he said, eventually. “We’ll talk about it.”

\--

He talked about it with Combeferre first, but when his most pressing inquiry seemed to be, “Are they a cute couple?” Joly had a pretty good idea of where their conversation was going to go.

Their conversation did go, and Joly ended up on Musichetta and Bossuet’s doorstep in his cleanest semi-formal wear.

It was nerve-wracking. He had spent his past few years moving people’s organs around, and here he was afraid of spilling food on his shirt.

But somehow, someway, he found the courage to turn the doorknob.

In the end, it turned out that some clouds did have their silver linings.


	3. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slash an apology of sorts

“Hello?” Joly called, stepping into the house. It was nice, from what he could see—a stone façade, shiny wood flooring...evidently Musichetta and Bossuet were fairly well off.

“In the kitchen!” came a voice—Musichetta’s—and Joly followed it, navigating along a dim hallway to discover a brightly lit kitchen. Bossuet waved at him from his place in a corner, Musichetta busy with various food dishes.

“You’re a little,” Musichetta started, glancing at the clock over the oven, “Oh. Exactly on time. Sorry, I’m a little backed up. Not used to cooking for three, and Bossuet’s not really any help, so…”

“I break things,” Bossuet amended, shrugging apologetically.

“It’s…fine,” Joly said, smiling a bit nervously. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Well, since you asked,” said Musichetta, “Bossuet, dear, could you show him where everything is and help him set the table?”

Bossuet gladly obliged, and they set three places—one across from the other two.

“You can go ahead and sit down,” said Bossuet, gesturing at the lonely place. “It’ll only be another minute or so, and I’m not sure we need another person in the kitchen. Uh…can I take your coat?”

“No,” Joly said, smiling and folding his coat over the back of the chair, “It’s fine. Thank you.”

Bossuet nodded, and returned to the kitchen.

Joly sat down and looked around.

There was a window behind him, brown curtains drawn over it. And it was only next to the curtains that Joly could tell the walls were slightly red, and not brown as well.

There was a chandelier above the table, and a few of the fake candles were out.

It was…nice. Though Joly really doubted anywhere that Musichetta and Bossuet lived could be anything but.

Though the smell of food in the kitchen was certainly helping the atmosphere.

And true to his word, Bossuet followed Musichetta out of the kitchen a minute or so later, and the two of them set three dishes of food on the table before sitting down themselves.

Joly felt a little put on the spot with the two of them across from him, but for the time being they seemed more interested in food than interrogating him. They both filled their plates, and Joly followed suit.

He managed to eat in peace for about thirty seconds before the questions started.

“You didn’t have any trouble finding the house, then?” Musichetta asked.

“Oh, no,” said Joly. “Your neighborhood is distinctive enough.”

“That’s one word for it,” said Bossuet. “So, is there anything you do besides doctor work?”

Joly smiled a bit at the phrase ‘doctor work.’ “A little,” he answered. “All of my friends are really interested in politics, so…or, not to say that I’m not interested, but it’s gotten hard to keep up with them, with my hours. I still try and attend rallies when I can, but…they’re not as eventful anymore, at least. I used to have to patch up everyone afterwards.”

“Really?” said Musichetta. “That sounds interesting.”

“I guess,” said Joly. “We’ve stopped trying to start revolutions and are more inclined to getting someone in office now, though. So…”

He shook his head, and waved a hand dismissively.

“Sorry,” he said, “It’s not good manners to talk politics at the dinner table, is it?”

“It’s completely fine,” said Bossuet, smiling. “It sounds like you live in an empty house, then?”

Joly raised an eyebrow.

“You two hit on me without being sure whether I was single or not?”

“We’re equal-opportunity flirters,” Musichetta said. “It would be a little strange if we left people out just because we thought they had a significant other, hm?”

She squeezed Bossuet’s arm, and Joly flushed slightly.

“I suppose that’s true,” he said, glancing down at his plate. And noticing that he had about twice as much food as either of the others did—they’d kept his mouth busy.

He took a few bites before the conversation continued on.

“You two flirt with everyone, then?” Joly asked.

“Well, Musichetta does,” said Bossuet.

“Oh, yes, you just point out cute people and then try and hide behind me when we go up to them,” she said, and Bossuet bashfully rubbed the back of his neck.

“Well,” he started, sounding like he was about to defend himself. But then he paused, and sighed resignedly. “Yeah.”

Joly tried not to betray how absolutely adorable he found that.

Musichetta smiled at her husband, before turning to Joly.

“We don’t, however, invite everyone over to dinner,” she clarified.

“Oh,” said Joly, idly poking something on his plate. “This…is this really a date, then?”

“Well, there’s really not much of a difference between a date and having a friend over for dinner, is there?” Bossuet said. “Other than what you call it, I guess.”

“And physical contact,” said Musichetta. “Which I invite—“

“ _We_ invite,” amended Bossuet.

“—Which we invite, but won’t initiate without your say-so. Fair enough?”

Joly looked between them for a moment.

“Fair enough,” he agreed, and turned back to his food.

\--

Joly was eventually given vocal reprieve enough to finish his meal, after which Bossuet insisted on serving dessert, because nothing could possibly go wrong scooping out a bowl of ice cream, right? And surprisingly enough, it didn’t—until Bossuet decided to be bold and eat his with chocolate syrup, at which point he ended up with a line of it down his shirt, instead.

He shamefully went off into the house to get a different shirt.

“…does this sort of thing happen to him a lot?” asked Joly, after he was presumably out of earshot.

“Yes,” said Musichetta, “He has terrible luck. And I didn’t even believe in luck until I met him. I thought he was just clumsy at first, but…I don’t know, a squirrel climbing up your pant leg can’t really be accounted for by clumsiness.”

Joly laughed before he could stop himself, covering his mouth with the back of his hand, and Musichetta joined him just in time for Bossuet to come back, adjusting the shirt he’d changed into.

“…are you two laughing at me?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Musichetta, immediately. “I’m telling him about our first date.”

“What!” went Bossuet, “That’s not even fair!”

Musichetta shrugged, and Joly attempted to give him an apologetic smile while biting down his laughter.

Bossuet dejectedly sat down and continued eating.

He made a good show of pouting, but it was easy enough to get him back into the conversation.

\--

Joly insisted on staying to help with the dishes, but even so it was soon enough time for him to leave, and Musichetta and Bossuet walked him to the door.

“Thanks for the food,” he said, standing in their foyer. “And, um…”

They both looked at him expectantly as he messed with one of his sleeves.

“I…don’t really know where my boundaries are here,” he said.

“From what I’ve seen of you, I highly doubt there are boundaries that you’re willing to cross that we aren’t,” said Musichetta.

“Oh,” said Joly. “Well…would it be alright if I kissed both of you, then?”

In answer, Musichetta stepped over and did kiss him, placing her hands on his shoulders as she stood up on her toes to do it.

Joly smiled, and placed his hand on Musichetta’s arm briefly before turning to Bossuet, who obligingly took a step closer to him.

Joly turned his head up to kiss him, as well.

After Bossuet put some space between them again, Joly couldn’t help but laugh.

“Oh, god,” he said, “I’m getting embarrassed again. Um, goodnight, I think. I’ll see you…well, I’ll see you.”

Bossuet nodded.

“We’ll call,” said Musichetta.

“I hope you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I'm done for real now


End file.
